The ringmaster-pimp puts on her top hat

as the raucous protest winds around the grimy

street corner. She’s gaunt and pale like an undertaker’s son,

a lone human lookalike in this sea of femmebot fantasies

and butch droid boutiques. The alleyway peep-o-rama

booths are painted pastel like a confectioner’s wet dream.

Push the coins into the slots, watch the neon lights flash like

something toxic. Street-smart pedagogy, teacher’s-drone soundscape—

this is some educational shit right here.

The protesters crowd around the booths.

We need to liberate these girls, they shout, fucking

themselves against the plexiglass display.

The velvet curtains drop. The girls oil their joints for the next dance.

The ringleader-pimp lifts her top hat and presses her

rewind button. Placards lowered, the protesters kick back and wait out

their refractory period.